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Max and I head upstairs. The man at the counter, Jesse Clay Mudbutt Stinkfoot CallmeUncle Perry gives us our free beers. He has hair like an orange tidal wave and a full, thick, neatly-trimmed beard that would make Richard Karn blush. I tell him how happy I am to see him and that maybe we should throw the football around sometime or maybe get a coffee. He tells me that he has a dirty rag in the back that he uses to wipe up bathroom messes and that he’d rather eat that whole than do anything with me. I smile, laugh, then swallow really hard so I won’t start crying.

Moments later, Ryan, the drummer and resident Apple Specialist in Savage and the Big Beat shows up and we drink some more free beers and pretty soon it’s time to play the show.

We set up our gear and start our soundcheck song. Everything sounds good. After a brief introduction from Max, we start our set.

I’m grooving. I’m moving. My music balls are tingling. I look up to the crowd. From the back of the room, people are parting violently. Someone is attempting to storm the stage. A few seconds later, Roy Robertson, the singer for my old band, is standing directly in front of me. Like “Gimme kiss” close. We stop playing.

“What, Roy?” I ask. He’s wearing large sunglasses and his head is jerking around wildly. It’s clear he’s doing a Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles bit.

“Who said that?” Roy asks, his voice soft, but clearly angry.

“Roy. I said that. You know who I am.”

“That Kyle? That Kyle on stage?”

“We’re all on stage,” Ryan says from behind his drums. “We’re trying to play a show, man. Can you–”

“Can I WHAT?” Roy barks, “SEE?!” He stumbles over toward the drum set, gingerly stepping over my pedals and a few cables. “Shit all over the ground,” Roy can be heard mumbling. “SEE?!” he repeats, now groping Ryan’s drums.

“AND I TRIED TO LOOK AT IT WITHOUT MY SHADES!” He rips off his sunglasses and rolls his eyes over and over again. This is what Roy thinks blind people’s eyes are like when they aren’t hidden by sunglasses.

“Roy. Please, leave.”

“Fine,” Roy says, sauntering around the stage, running his hand down Max’s keyboard, causing a dissonant string of notes that cut into the silent room like shattering glass. “But know that there is no one more Savage then Roy Robertson,” he glares at Max, “And nobody, and I mean nobody has Beats as Big as mine,” he glares at Ryan then reaches into his pocket and throws down three small orbs before turning to me and hissing like a cat. There’s a small explosion and plumes of smoke erupt from the ground.

We all step away from the smoke. There are scattered cries of concern, then one shrill, high-pitched yelp like the death-throes of a cat. I look to the source of the sound. It is Roy, laying on the concrete floor. He tripped over my pedals while trying to escape.

“My face! My beautiful face!” he screams. He rolls onto his back and begins bicycle kicking in my direction. “You did this!” he wails. In no real danger, I step back slightly. Roy quickly gets to his feet. He straightens his jacket, points at each of us, then leaves.

“Okay, well,” Max says into the microphone. He pauses, searching for the next word. “Well,” he says, then starts the first song.